tonight
by MsEstora
Summary: Bail Organa, and the first nights he spends with the people he cares for the most at different stages in his life. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Breha Antilles, Padmé Amidala. Three vignettes. Rated M.
1. Obi-Wan Kenobi

_Disclaimer:__ This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by George Lucas. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_A/N: Written for my friends over on Tumblr! So the reason I call Bail 'Prestor' in the first part is because of my head!canon for him. In TPM, one of the Senators listed as a candidate for Chancellor is Bail Antilles, who is canonically Breha's father. Bail's middle name is 'Prestor', so my head!canon is that Prestor was his original name, and he had to take the name 'Bail' as his first name as part of the settlement to the Alderaan Ascendancy Contention. But it's still very much Bail, I promise! I hope you enjoy the stories._

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><p><strong>tonight<strong>

(Obi-Wan Kenobi)

"That all went a lot more smoothly than I expected it to."

The younger Jedi - a Padawan, Prestor remembers, so not a full Jedi yet - hasn't had much to do with him during the negotiations on the trade agreement. Not that Prestor hasn't noticed him at all, of course - he's always been there, beside Master Jinn, observing everything with those careful eyes of his and looking either unimpressed or only vaguely interested in the proceedings or the people involved in them.

So he's surprised to see the Jedi speak to him now that the negotiations are over. Everyone is crowded into the room, their murmured self-indulgent conversations turning the atmosphere sluggish as champagne gets floated around and more than a few cigars are lit.

"What __were__ you expecting?" Prestor asks, because the Jedi is more interesting than anything else going on right now.

The Jedi offers a wry smile. "Secret plots against your House, criminal activity going on behind the scenes, at least one murder and an investigation into it, someone double-crossing, a few shoot-outs -"

"Well, don't tempt fate," Prestor says, half laughing and half concerned this will all come to pass now. The Jedi smiles and gestures to the seat beside Prestor's, silently asking permission to sit there, and Prestor nods. "I'd like to think Alderaan is a little more civilised than that."

Privately, Prestor knows it isn't - not recently, anyway, with the tensions between House Organa and House Antilles rising and turning half of the planet against itself. The Jedi dubiously raises an eyebrow as he sits down. "Everyone always does," he replies.

"I'm wondering if I should be insulted," Prestor says, but he's amused. He holds his hand out. "Prestor Organa."

The Jedi smiles, shaking his hand. "I know who you are."

Of course he does. Everyone knows Prestor Organa, future Viceroy of Alderaan - or at least, he will be if House Antilles stops being a collective bunch of paranoid, insipid assholes. Prestor rakes his eyes over the Jedi. He must be a little younger than himself, by only a few years. "I'm afraid your name has slipped my mind," he says. "Ben, wasn't it?"

"Something like that," the Jedi replies, and that smile is absolutely infuriating. "Obi-Wan, actually. Obi-Wan Kenobi. It's strange our paths haven't crossed much during the negotiations."

Well, that's embarrassing, but Obi-Wan Kenobi doesn't seem to mind. Prestor says mildly. "Perhaps if they'd gone the rather explosive direction you expected them to, we might have," he replies, looking around the room. Around them, the officials and ministers and Organa Senior are ordering another round of drinks, congratulating themselves. Master Jinn is trapped in a conversation with Tia, who seems to fancy the poor man and is doing everything she can to make a move on him, and Prestor is far too amused to intervene. "It's a little stuffy in here."

"Isn't this supposed to be your future career?"

Prestor snorts, and finds himself gazing at the Jedi again, intrigued. "Just because it's my future doesn't mean I have to endure it every waking moment," he says, then stands and raises his eyebrow at Obi-Wan. "I'm going to my private office. You're welcome to accompany me there, if you like. Just in case there really is a secret plot against my House."

Obi-Wan laughs, and they slip away from the function together and no-one notices.

It's winter on Alderaan at the moment - just past the Solstice, and it's frightfully cold outdoors. The palace has a fine heating system, but Prestor's office faces the south side of the palace and tends to be chillier than the other rooms. It's a large office, a little indulgent but he's more than earned it, and once inside Prestor closes the door behind them and gestures to the brandy cabinet.

"Might I offer you something to drink?"

"What, there weren't enough drinks at the function for you?" Obi-Wan says wryly, tugging his robe around him tighter, and Prestor laughs.

"I'm not much of a champagne person," he explains. "Brandy? It'll warm you up."

"If you insist," Obi-Wan replies, and Prestor pours them a glass each.

"So, tell me - Padawan Kenobi," he drawls, walking (not strutting, he's absolutely not strutting) over to the fireplace to stoke it. "What's it like being a Jedi?"

Obi-Wan is good at hiding his lack of interest in brandy by taking a brave sip. "Edifying," he says, and Prestor snorts.

"You're very careful with your words, aren't you?"

Obi-Wan smiles. "Words are tools - no sense in showing off your entire array in one go."

If Prestor was intrigued before, he's entranced now, and laughs and gets the fire crackling merrily. "You'd have made a very good politician."

"Now I'm wondering if __I__ should be insulted," he says, and Prestor laughs again and gestures for Obi-Wan to sit on the couch with him before the fire.

They talk some more, and Obi-Wan's robe comes off when the room warms from the fire. Second and then third glasses of brandy are poured - even though Ben, no, Obi-Wan, isn't much of a brandy person, he drinks all the same and holds a coherent conversation. He's better company than anyone else in the palace right now - far more interesting.

"Master Qui-Gon might be wondering where I am," Obi-Wan eventually murmurs, but he doesn't sound terribly worried. His eyes are dilated, Prestor's hand has ended up on Obi-Wan's knee to support himself, and their empty glasses rest on the table. It's very warm; Prestor's half-cloak came off some time ago, but he can't remember where it's been dropped.

__Not if Tia got her way__, Prestor thinks. "He hasn't comm'd you," he points out, remarkably coherent for the amount of brandy he's consumed.

"No," Obi-Wan agrees, and they move forward together at the same time. Obi-Wan's tongue tastes like the brandy, rich and heady to Prestor's mouth, and Prestor bites back a groan and tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

They don't quite manage to get all their clothes off the first time; Obi-Wan ends up beneath Prestor on the couch with his tunic half-off, his pants tugged down around his knees. Prestor isn't much better - his shirt is still on, only his belt unbuckled and pants unzipped. It's hard and fast and messy and Prestor called out 'Ben' a few times instead of 'Obi-Wan', but Obi-Wan seemed to like it just fine. The clothes come off for the second time, and they end up on the carpet in front of the fireplace because there's not enough room on the couch.

"Do you make a habit of sleeping with your negotiators?" Obi-Wan gasps as Prestor kneels over him, his hand between them. Prestor likes this look on him - naked and trembling and skin slicked with sweat.

"Only the interesting ones," Prestor replies, then presses his mouth to Obi-Wan's again and it's the start of something a lot more profound and meaningful than it has any right or reason to be.


	2. Breha Antilles

_Disclaimer:__ This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by George Lucas. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

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><p><strong>tonight<strong>

(Breha Antilles)

The week leading up to his marriage, and the terribly long and exhausting event itself, doesn't lend much time to getting to know Breha Antilles. He knows the basics about her: she's nineteen, she was studying to be a teacher before all of this happened, and now she's his wife. They've spoken to each other a little, but they were all platitudes - "How are you?" "Well, thank you." "I, Bail Prestor Organa, take you to be my lawfully wedded wife…" - and now, hours later, in their suite, it's the first time they've ever actually been alone together.

She's over by the dresser, tugging off her veil and stepping out of her shoes, and - pulls off her elaborately braided hair, as well. He blinks, staring at her, and Bail's first non-rehearsed, suave words to his new young wife are an astounded: "You were wearing a wig the whole time."

Her hands jump to her hair. "Well, yes," she replies, her cheeks colouring. "I didn't expect to become the ruler of this planet when I had it cut, you see."

Well, fair enough. He didn't expect any of this, either - and of course she'd be wearing a wig. It wouldn't do for a Queen of Alderaan to go around with short-cropped hair. "For all of our social liberty, you'd think the people wouldn't care about the scandal of short hair on women," Prestor - __Bail__, his name is Bail now - says.

Breha shrugs. "Tradition dies hard, I suppose."

Bail moves across on the bed, offering her space to sit down beside him. "So. This is… sudden."

She hugs her knees to her chest, the fine dress rustling with the movement. "It is," she agrees.

They're both thinking, __we have to have sex now__, but neither say it. "Have you had much counsel, yet?" Bail queries instead, desperate to delay the consummation for as long as possible. It's not that she's not attractive - she is, she's beautiful - and it's not that he doesn't like women - he does, he's had several partners in the past. It's just…

__Ben__.

He shakes his head and concentrates on her reply. "About five days' worth, so I think that makes me an expert," Breha says, and despite himself he laughs.

"You won't be needing my help to run this planet at all, then."

She laughs, too, and the tension eases ever so slightly. It does, however, leave an immediate awkward silence. Bail shifts and clears his throat. "Breha, may I ask you… are you leaving anyone behind?"

She shakes her head. "No. No-one." She pauses, then looks at him with a frown. "Are you?"

"No," he lies.

__Ben.__

He grimaces and shakes his head. He's the Viceroy of Alderaan now. The Prince Consort. Obi-Wan is a Jedi Knight, with his own Padawan. They don't have a place in each other's lives anymore. "So, now what?" he asks, trying to tear his thoughts away from Ben.

"We consummate our marriage, I suppose," Breha replies.

"I suppose," he echoes numbly. He watches her stand and reach behind her to unzip her dress - she looks beautiful, all in white and flowing fabrics - and she deftly steps out of the gown and turns to lay it over the chair. "I'm guessing you got that tattoo before knowing about the Queen thing, as well," Bail says, staring at the small of her back in unexpectedly delighted surprise, and she glances at him over her shoulder and smiles coyly, but doesn't explain.

__Oh__.

He remains silent as she makes her way back over to him, now just in her under clothes. His mouth is dry as she stands before him, then slips onto his lap. She's light - slender and delicate, and he forces his gaze up from her chest to her eyes. Up close now he can see how pretty she is, the softness and warmth to her eyes.

"I'd like to make this work, Bail," she whispers. His hands rise on their own accord to brace her back gently, holding her close to him. Their hips slide together, her legs straddling his waist and her arms around his shoulders, and Bail feels a rush of warmth through his body at the proximity.

"Me, too," he hears himself say, voice hoarse. One hand drifts down to the small of her back, and his fingers trace the small inking there. "Breha, have you… ever…"

She offers him a small smile at that. "I'm no virgin, Bail Organa. What about you?"

He splutters, shaking his head, but then he notices her teasing smile and laughs breathlessly instead. His movements jostle them closer together, so that she's rocking lightly against his groin and his heart is hammering harder. __I didn't expect you to be like this__, he thinks, leaning forwards to press his lips lightly to her collarbone in a movement that feels almost instinctual. Her hands come up to his hair, running through them, and she shifts in his lap again and the movement sends heat rushing between their bodies, and this time he feels himself harden against her, his erection tenting his pants.

They kiss tentatively at first, then deeper, lips parting and exploring each others' mouths for the first time. The kiss at their marriage barely counted - it was symbolic, nothing more - but this is intoxicating, making him light-headed as she helps him remove his suit and chest plates and strip him of the rest of his clothes. She lets him ease her down into the bed, covering her body with his.

"You'll let me know if I do anything you don't -" he gasps, then comes up short for breath as she gives him a smile that goes straight to his groin, and her soft hand grasps his aching length gently. "Okay," he gasps again, and angles his mouth against hers and falls into her welcome embrace.


	3. Padmé Amidala

_Disclaimer:__ This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by George Lucas. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

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><p><strong>tonight<strong>

(Padmé Amidala)

Bail laughs off the rumours of an affair with Padmé Amidala as best he can. This is the Senate, and if two Senators ever indulge in a close friendship it's practically a given there will be articles and false reports of a relationship. It was funny at first - he bought some of the rags and read them with Padmé after a long day at the Senate, usually over dinner and drinks. And then it stopped being funny when Obi-Wan passive-aggressively interrogated him over whether the rumours were true, and then it just became devastating when Breha didn't say anything at because she clearly believed them.

It's even harder because, much as he's tried to deny it for all these years, there __is__ something between them. Never talked about, not seriously anyway, and nothing's ever __happened__. But he's a man in his prime (sort of) and she's a very attractive, very intelligent close friend and colleague, and… yes, it's crossed his mind once or twice.

But ultimately, she's his friend, and he's hers. In the Senate, they support each other - he backs up her bills with his support when her critics are being sexist assholes, and she takes him out to dinner and helps him revise his sometimes less-eloquent speeches. The last two years of the Wars, they've been there for each other when Skywalker wasn't there for her and Ben and Breha haven't been there for him.

And right now, more than ever, he needs her as his friend.

The week at the Senate has been nothing short of a disaster - three of Bail's bills were overturned, his office hours have doubled in the last two months, Palpatine accepted more emergency powers, reports of Obi-Wan being critically injured in the latest offensive in the Outer Rim have filtered through, Breha somehow found out about Obi-Wan… and then, three nights ago, Breha miscarried their fourth child and was hospitalised, and she said she didn't want him to come home for her.

Everyone has a breaking point. Bail wonders if this is his.

He finds himself outside Padmé's apartment in 500 Republica, feeling weak and shaky and like he's ready to snap at the slightest touch. He hammers on the door, presses the buzzer repeatedly until she opens the door.

"Bail, what -" Her eyes widen, taking in his demeanour, and steps aside immediately. "Come in, right now."

He obeys, putting one foot in front of the other until she's dragged him over to her couch. A cool glass of something is shoved into his hands - brandy, he smells, she keeps brandy in her apartment now just for him. He takes a large gulp, and Padmé sits beside him, grasping his hands.

"Bail, what's wrong?" she asks. "Please tell me - let me help you."

Sweet, naive Padmé, thinking she can help everyone. She doesn't really, she likes to think she does, but she just organises charity functions and sometimes throws herself into the middle of battles. She means well, but - "You can't," Bail gasps out. "No-one can help. Everything's just - and I can't - I don't know how to -"

She urges him to take another gulp; he does. "Tell me," she says, and he chokes again.

"It's everything." Breha and Ben and the pain and the stress and the pain and guilt and all he wants to do is finish the whole damn bottle of brandy and then some to make it go away, just for a night. He finds himself ranting, not making an ounce of sense, and it's like a speeder hurtling towards a building about to crash and his foot keeps pressing down on the accelerator instead of the brakes. "It's not __fair!__ It's not vaping fair, why did I have to marry __her?__ Why couldn't it have been anyone else, then I wouldn't __care__ so much, why did Ben have to come back into my life and complicate __everything__, why do I hurt everyone I love -"

He pitches forward, his head buried in his hands, and he starts to sob. "Why can't it all just stop __hurting?__"

Bail barely notices Padmé draw close beside him and drape her arm around his shoulders. She doesn't have to say anything - he knows she knows, he sees the same pain in her eyes every time her bills fail and Skywalker gets injured and she can't do anything. He clings to her, sobbing, and she strokes his hair and lets him weep. "I know," she murmurs. "I know. Force, Bail, I'm so sorry. This is my fault, isn't it?"

He shakes his head. "No. Not your fault. It's just - the kriffing rumours, and Breha, and Ben -"

"Ben?"

He shakes his head again harder. "Doesn't matter." He downs his brandy in a couple of gulps, relishing the painful burn down his throat.

"We have a Senate session tomorrow," Padmé warns.

"Don't care."

She looks like she's about to argue, but then she sighs and looks tired and lonely and sad and nods. More brandy comes out for him; champagne for her. He's not much of a champagne person, but he steals her bottle when he runs out of his. It helps numb his roiling mind, and she's there beside him, stroking his hair and helping him relax. "Feels nice," Bail mumbles when she runs her fingers down his face and neck.

"You're drunk, Bail Organa," she says quietly, and he snorts with soft laughter and nods, and reaches up to touch her lips. It's entirely involuntary but he doesn't want to stop. She's so intense and beautiful and he doesn't know what he might have done if he hadn't been able to come to her tonight.

Probably something stupid.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and she nods - and then leans forward to press her mouth to Bail's. Perhaps it's just a friendly expression of thanks, perhaps it's because she's lonely as well and it's been a long time since she's had someone to be close with, but either way he suddenly clings to her, not wanting her to pull back or stop.

It goes on for far too long to be considered 'friendly'. It warms him in all the right places, and she notices. He's too inebriated to be embarrassed - he'll probably feel that later. For now, he just watches her break the kiss and gaze at him, and notice, and then bite her lower lip and reach over to rest her hand over his tight groin. He groans, too drunk to do anything else except react.

"Is this okay?" he hears her ask, a lot more coherent than he reckons he'd sound. "Just… this?" Her mouth collides awkwardly with his. "Just tonight. Is that… okay?"

Just sex, just for tonight, because she's lonely and scared for Skywalker and everything in Bail's life hurts right now, and they can be there for each other. "Yes," he replies. "Yes. You know you're… you're one o'th'most beautiful women I… I ever met. You know?"

He's grateful she doesn't reply to that with 'what about Breha?' because he doesn't want to think about Breha right now, he feels guilty enough. She doesn't reply at all, not verbally anyway - she attacks his clothes desperately, because the fire that's been simmering between him and Padmé for months now has been ignited and suddenly they can't stop touching each other and yanking elaborate Senatorial clothes off, and when she kisses him he meets her mouth like they're both dying of thirst. It's been so long, he's been away from Breha for so long and away from Obi-Wan even longer and Padmé is here right now and it's wonderful.

"Padmé," he moans, letting her push him back into the couch as she straddles him. "I -"

"Don't talk," she whispers, and he wonders what pain she's trying to get rid of too. Skywalker, he thinks, but she's right, they don't need to talk. They just need this. She takes him deep inside her, and then they start to move and for a blissful eternity, nothing hurts at all.


End file.
